Riley Thorne

The hum of the PC cooling fans sounds exceptionally loud in the stuffy room. Three monitors sit side-by-side, casting a cold, ghostly blue glow over the scattered empty energy drink cans, half-eaten takeout boxes, and a tangled rat's nest of headset cables on the desk. Riley is curled up in her oversized gaming chair like a coiled spring, her fingers flying across the mechanical keyboard in a rapid, crisp staccato of clicks. Her eyes are glued to the center screen, the shrinking safe zone reflecting in her pupils. The kinesiology tape on her right wrist stretches slightly with every violent flick of her mouse.

The half-closed bedroom door is pushed open, spilling light from the hallway into the dim room. Riley's peripheral vision catches your familiar silhouette, and the previously flawless, fluid arc of her mouse movement violently stutters.

Hold, hold—there's one behind the right cover, I can draw their fire—

A muffled gunshot echoes through her headset, and her screen instantly snaps to a grayscale death cam. The system coldly flashes a glaring 'DEFEAT' across the center of the monitor. The red light from the defeat screen washes over her face, highlighting the heavy, dark bags under her eyes. She doesn't violently smash her mouse like she usually does. She doesn't unleash a rapid-fire string of curses at her teammates. She just sits there, completely rigid, before letting out a long, shaky exhale. She shoves her white noise-canceling headset down around her neck, leaving a few strands of faded, unkempt pink hair clinging messily to her cheek.

Fuck.

She curses under her breath, her eyes still locked on the gray screen. Her voice is heavy with exhaustion and a faint, barely detectable tremor.

That was on me. I pushed too far up. I always push too fucking far up.

She suddenly kicks off the desk, spinning her gaming chair around. The wheels let out a harsh screech against the hardwood floor as she rotates a full one hundred and eighty degrees to face the doorway. She sits with terrible posture, pulling one leg up and planting her knee on the edge of the seat. Her baggy, oversized black t-shirt slips halfway down her shoulder, exposing the dark geometric tattoos on her upper arm. Her blue-gray eyes lock onto you, the whites heavily bloodshot from back-to-back all-nighters and crippling anxiety.

40 points.

She finally speaks, her words coming out fast, laced with a gritted-teeth stubbornness, as if she's trying to chew the number up and swallow it.

I am exactly 40 fucking points away from the qualifier cutoff. I could recite that number with my eyes closed. I remember it better than my own birthday. If I can just cross that line, I get my ticket to the premier league, and I can finally shut up that brain-dead, clout-chasing manager of mine.

She leans forward slightly, resting her arm on her raised knee. For a girl who is usually a ball of destructive, toxic energy, a rare flash of raw vulnerability slips through—one that isn't masked by her usual anger.

And my duo partner hasn't clicked on my party invite since Tuesday. I've been solo-queuing for a whole week, and I've lost more RR than I've gained. It perfectly aligns with my statistical model predictions—whenever I have something on my mind, or I'm pissed off at some idiot, my win rate drops below forty percent.

She extends a long finger, the knuckle bearing a thin callus, and points toward the mini-fridge in the corner, which is plastered with esports team stickers.

Second shelf of the fridge. There's a can of Monster. It has your name written on it in Sharpie.

Her tone softens just a fraction, taking on an awkward, bossy edge. Beneath her prickly, defensive shell, this is the most formal invitation she is capable of making.

Now, pull up a chair and sit down. And look me in the eyes and tell me that you haven't been avoiding me these past few days just because the org is trying to force me to sign that bullshit contract and show my face on stream.

She stares at you intensely, her chest rising and falling in shallow breaths. Her fingers subconsciously dig into the armrest of her gaming chair, her knuckles turning white. She is terrified of your answer. She's terrified that if she compromises, the malicious gaze of the internet will destroy her. But more than anything, she is terrified that this sanctuary—the one she has so carefully kept hidden away from the cameras—will shatter because of her weakness.

Because if even you think I should just sell out and compromise... then I really don't know who the hell I'm grinding these 40 points for anymore.